Wolves at the Door
by Hermia S
Summary: It's the sort of fight no one should face alone, a struggle meant to be shouldered by more than one soul. Rhys Cousland has only Nathaniel Howe to share the burden and too much pride to place the grief and anger and hatred on anyone besides himself, even his closest friend, even someone he grows to love.
1. Chapter 1

Just as a **note**, this was written by both myself and my girlfriend, SerNature. We'll be updating it as often as possible, though we're both working on our own solo projects so it may not be as often as we'd like! That said, we may completely ignore original stuff to write more of these two. Who knows? Not us! Enjoy!

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There would not be a day when Nathaniel didn't relive the night his father showed his true form.

Rendon Howe had never been the bear that was so proudly used as their sigil. People of their ilk would be more inclined to think of him as a viper or a spider that made trapdoors out of webs and dirt, but he had always seen his father as one of the panthers from the great jungles of Seheron. He was a calculated man, one who waited in the shadows for his prey to lower their guard, and when he struck, it was with a precise, brutal efficiency.

And most of all, wild animals do not know the rules of dogs. They will bite the hand that feeds them.

They will take the entire body if it pleases them.

Even still, Nate never believed his father was capable of this. Of unrepentant butchery, of a betrayal of this magnitude.

Blossom woke him. Even three doors down the hall, Rhys's mabari had a bark that resonated through the stone halls. His friend may have slept through such a ruckus easily, but Nathaniel wasn't so lucky... though, it was a blessing in this case.

He already had a dagger in hand when his father's men came through with swords at the ready. Their guard dropped quickly, however. Nathaniel had been living with the Couslands for going on four years; why did it surprise him that his father knew which room was his?

"Master Howe!" Nate knew the man. Richard or Rickon. Something with an 'R'. His father had favored him, which meant Nathaniel had an immediate distaste for the scarred blonde in front of him. "Glad we got it right! Need'ta get ya outta here, m'lord, 'fore it gets too bloody."

Nathaniel remained calm, spinning the hilt of his dagger in his hand, grey eyes shifting from soldier to soldier as they all left to assist with the hostile takeover of Highever. "It's a coup, then?" he asked, masking his disgust as best he could. "Have you killed the Couslands yet?"

"No, ser. We-"

Whatever the man had to say was cut off by the blade embedded in his neck.

Richard or Rickon or _whatever_ his name was clutched at his neck, grasping at it comically, as if removing the steel in his windpipe would be akin to magic, healing his wounds and allowing speech once more.

When he crumpled to the ground, Nate stepped over him to reach his quiver, freshly stocked of arrows, and his bow. He had several on his wall. One from his father that was far too small for him now, another he won during Highever's archery contest the year before, and finally there was the ironbark recurve bow from Bryce Cousland himself, given to him when he had returned from the Free Marches.

Nate came home to a dead mother and a father who decided to work from Denerim, so the Couslands invited him to stay.

A few days became a week, a week quickly turned into a month, and Nate found himself falling into a friendship that had no reason to work as well as it did. Nearly a decade age gap and glaringly different personalities, and yet Nate found himself spending more time with Rhys and less time with Fergus, the one he had actually grown up with.

His first instinct was to head up the hall and to his friend's room, damn waiting to put on his armor.

There was no waiting, no hiding in the shadows as he preferred. He had no time to line up his shots for mortal blows, so he crippled instead, sending serrated arrowheads into the tender flesh of thighs and shoulders and stomachs. He would gather them again once they began making their way to the gates.

Nate lost count of how many of his father's men he sent to the Maker, or at least to the ground. Beyond that one soldier, they were not men he knew. Far too young to account for the six years in the Marches and another four spending only summers in Amanranthine, wondering if Rendon might dare to speak to him.

It didn't take long for the clashes of steel on wood to be broken by a guttural growl, followed by screams. Crunching. Gushing of blood.

Blossom was still alive, then.

When he finally came to the small ramp that lead to the family's bedchambers, he was greeted with a sight that elated him, as well as worried.

Rhys's shield was covered in gore; the bottom point was still dripping, chunks of brain and skull falling to the floor with a sickening, wet sound. Blossom was no better, her once kaddis-stained snout was now a terrible red, all the way up to her ears, leaving only small parts of silver still noticeable on her back.

Her hackles were still raised, and she made no move to lower her guard or wag her tail. She was no normal dog. A mabari would not rest, would not relax for a moment for as long as their master was in danger.

"Rhys." Nate's throat was dry from sleep and fear; it roughened his voice more than usual. "I- I came as quickly as I could. We should get to your parents."

When Rhys let his shield droop, no longer held at attention, he shook his head. "Not yet."

The words spat from his lips, and he gave a shuddering sigh as he set both weapons at the foot of his bed, only serving to stain the bedclothes farther. Remnants of the soldiers seeped into the blanket, darkening the wool to match the sheets still tangled around the elven woman still in his bed. If not for the crossbow bolts in her chest, her death might have been easily passed as a deep slumber.

"Those were your father's men," Rhys continued, moving around the room to reach for whatever clothes he could find. Fighting men naked was never his forte, shown in true form by the gash at the back of his shoulder that turned his back a bright, vital shade of red. His hip was scored to match. "Tell me why. I'm not going anywhere with you, least of all to my parents, until you tell me."

Nate had an anger to match the younger man's, and while he bristled, even sneered, he did not make a scene. "There's a trail of my father's men, dead and dying, leading from my room to yours. All with green feather fletching." His jaw twitched, eyes darting around the room, muscles tensing should Rhys choose not to believe him. "I know as little as you do. One of my father's men attempted to make me leave the castle. He now has a dagger in his throat."

"I appreciate the solidarity, but this..."

Rhys made a disgusted noise as he shrugged on the lightest armor he had piece by piece. Adrenaline forced a shake down into his fingers, and he cursed under his breath as he struggled with his laces. Being pulled from a deep sleep by Blossom's ever-watchful growling set his nerves on edge, and having his door kicked in and watching the intruders kill Iona without a thought twisted him into frantic knots.

When he looked back up at Nate, his expression was desperate rather than angry, his blue eyes wide. "What _is _this?"

"A coup." Nate moved forward slowly, setting his bow down on a chair. Blossom growled in warning, but didn't lunge. Rhys seemed just as apprehensive, but when he, too, did not threaten, the older man finally reached out to assist with his laces, drawing them tightly, keeping his eyes on them rather than seeing that look on his friend's face.

"Every noble in the land covets your family's power," he murmured, callused fingers working their way up Rhys's breastplate, securing the latches to his standards rather than the other man's. "It appears my father decided to take it from idle talk to action. I couldn't tell you where he got the support."

Rhys set his jaw, waiting until his laces were tied to step away. His movement was stilted, as if his body wound its own muscles tight enough to splinter, as if the deliberate movement of his neck from side to side would cause a break. If the stretch relaxed him, the change was not obvious.

"He has known my father since before the Rebellion. They fought alongside each other. They were friends, and he does this? Threatens to overwhelm us in our _sleep_?"

As he spoke, his voice rose, and he did not grab his sword so much as snatch it up to grip the hilt in a white-knuckled hand. Behind Nate, Blossom growled yet again, this time taking a few steps forward until Rhys shook his head. She turned her back after that and a jerk of Rhys's chin towards the door, a wordless command to keep watch.

Grasping his shield, he held it against him as if he was composed for another attack. "Get your armor, then," he said, a command ill-fit to his voice, still steeped in worry as it was. "I'll not sit and wait for them to attack again."

Nate did not deign to answer him. He ran off back down to his room, snatching arrows as he went. When he made it to his chambers, he donned his padded leather as hastily as his hands would allow. Black and light, the armor covered his body head to toe and made him nearly invisible in the night, with several hidden pouches throughout the breastplate that was more vest than armor.

Even as quick as he was, Blossom forced him to move even more so when she barked. Once, twice, and a third time that was cut short by a yelp and a bellow of such rage he could scarcely believe it was _human_, let alone his dear friend.

All thoughts toward his own survival once again fled his mind as he bolted back up the corridor, bow in hand and arrow docked.

The moment he saw someone other than Rhys in view, he loosed it, grinning briefly as the man flanking Rhys dropped face first to the cold stone.

He did not speak, he only acted, firing again and again until the men outside the Teryn's door were all dead, most by Rhys's hand, a few by Nathaniel himself, and a handful by Blossom. Even more now as she went from body to body, tearing their throats to ensure they were dead.

Across from them, the door the men nearly splintered opened to reveal Rhys's mother, armed to the teeth and looking just as angry and confused as her son. Eleanor Cousland was every inch a warrior, and she paid the mabari no mind even as its jaws closed around the last guard's windpipe, silencing the bloody gurgle in the man's throat.

"Rhys! Oh, Maker's sake, I dressed as quickly as I could." She moved over to him, her hands seeking out his face. "I heard Blossom, and the fight that broke out. Do you... do you have any idea what is happening?"

"Howe." The word caught in Rhys's mouth, all but choking him. His mother's introduction into the fray changed things; Nathaniel knew that. This was no longer about their survival; it was about keeping his mother safe and getting her out of the castle, far enough away from this coup to breathe at the very least. "He's betrayed father. We have to find him. I don't – I don't know anything else. They've already killed Iona; I don't doubt they're doing the same to everyone."

This news tore a frown into Eleanor's lined face, but she took a slow breath and shook her head. "We won't see our friends slain in our own home," she murmured, her hands falling from Rhys's cheeks to grip at his shoulders. Just as her hands shifted position, her eyes moved, as well, finding Nathaniel's face and managing a weak smile. "You're with us, I take it?"

"Of course, my lady." Nate did everything he could to keep his voice steady. They was no time to stop and think about his words, what they meant. "I will do whatever you need of me."

That seemed to satisfy the teryna, despite the narrowing of her sharp, green eyes that might have told him otherwise. "Good." Turning back to Rhys, she smiled once more, this time warmer, concern creasing her brow. "We'll find your father. He was with Duncan as well as Rendon tonight; I'm sure he's safe."

Without a word she walked toward Nathaniel, stepping behind him and taking roughly half his quiver, replacing it with some of her own. They were well made, but suited for hunting. The arrow heads did not pierce as well as he would have liked, and frankly he took issue with anyone touching his things.

His body must have told of his discomfort, because Eleanor chuckled behind him. The noise sounded forced; she was attempting to ease her son.

"Have you checked on Oren? Oriana?" She peered at the closed door of Fergus' room. "I imagine they'd be good hostages, thank the Maker."

Rhys went rigid again, a panic settling into his face despite his mother's endeavor to calm him down. "I didn't. They might still be here." He twisted towards the door and pressed past the both of them in its direction. There was a moment of hesitation, when Rhys stood in front of the door and thought of something. Only when the young man set aside his sword and shield did Nathaniel realize what he thought about.

Oren was young enough to still be frightened by a too-loud noise. If Rhys burst into the room in armor with his shield and sword coated in a heavy layer of gore, the boy wouldn't sleep for a year.

Lifting his fist to the door, Rhys knocked quietly, asking Oriana to let him in. He repeated this twice more before giving up and grasping at the handle instead, finding the lock free. When he pressed into Fergus's bedchamber, he looked to the bed, to the walls and the chairs. It took his mother trying to push past him to pull his gaze downward, and what he saw made him hold her back.

Howe thought the second Cousland heir was better off a corpse with his mother than a prisoner. Both Oren and Oriana had been run through what seemed like long before. In the light of one flickering candle hastily lit and the moon shining in from the windows high on the walls, the two were drained of all life. They were pale, a washed-out shade of blue, and around them spread a halo of cold blood, black on the stones and black on the rug beneath them.

"No," Rhys whined. He filled up the doorway as best he could, squaring his shoulders and turning to block his mother from entering. With his failing, blurry vision, he could only just make out the hard lines of Eleanor's face. He knew she would move past him. It was an inevitability he could delay only by seconds. "Mother, please."

"Let me _through_." Something in her voice spoke of an otherworldly awareness. It was as if Rhys's voice had given everything away, as if she could decipher the fate of her grandson from his expression alone. "I want to see them."

Rhys did his best to keep her away, but eventually her insistence overrode his strength. At least, what little of it remained.

"No," she echoed her son, falling to her knees. "No! They- they were _innocent_. Why would he do this? What point is there in _butchery_."

Nathaniel watched in silence as Rhys sunk down to the floor to console his mother. No words were spoken; from the look on his friend's face, he doubted the man could put two words together. It was the teryna that sent them on their way, directing them first to Cousland's vault.

This time, he didn't lose track of the number of soldiers. Death on this scale was something he was not accustomed to, nor was Rhys, but Eleanor lived through the Rebellion. She was an excellent sniper, age being the only thing keeping her arrows from striking true more often than his own.

They had killed seventeen soldiers and five mabari by the time they made it to the vault. Nathaniel wisely kept his mouth shut about his issues with Rhys carrying a shield with the emblem of his family of it. If his father did this, he must have a way to get out of a traitor's punishment. He must have some sort of falsified proof that the Couslands themselves were no longer loyal.

Not only that, it had to be something _grave_ for anyone to possibly believe it. The Cousland bloodline was older than the Theirins. If one family truly embodied Ferelden, it was them.

He understood his father's envy.

Their next heading was the reception hall, hoping that the loud clamoring meant the teyrn was commanding within.

Instead, they were met with a slaughter. At least twenty Howe soldiers and even two mages versus ten house guards who were more for show than anything else and Ser Roland Gilmore behind a hastily built barricade of tables and chairs. From the number of corpses on the floor, it appeared the Cousland forces had once outnumbered the Howes.

The three of them joined the fray without an ounce of hesitation, but Roland nearly cold-clocked Rhys, a thick, armored arm snapping out and catching him by the chest.

"No." He pushed Rhys back, using all his strength to push him away as his paltry forces closed rank around the Couslands, palm heavy on the center of his chest. "My Lord, _no_. You cannot waste your time on us."

"I would hardly call your _lives_ a waste of time," Rhys replied, pressing forward to where he stood only a moment before, sword already drawn. "I've already seen far too many familiar corpses tonight, Gilmore. I won't have anyone else fall on account of my safety. So turn 'round and fight _with _me."

"_Rhys_."

The tone of Roland's voice made the hairs on the back of Nate's neck stand on end. The man didn't even need to finish his sentence for them all to know what he would say next, but he continued regardless.

"We're dead men," the knight explained. "But we will die ensuring you and the teyrna live." When it appeared Rhys was not moved, Roland huffed. "Your father should be at the larder. The Grey Warden was with him. My Lord," he nodded toward Eleanor, "my Lady – he is wounded. Badly. Leave this to us."

"He's right, dear." The teyrna rested her hand on her son's shoulder. "We must go. There's no other option."

Nate shifted on his feet, grinding his molars with indecision before speaking as well. "I've been counting. Amanranthine's army is much larger than just the men you've seen. The alchemist's fire will be coming out shortly. If we stay, we forfeit our lives."

The knight's normally soft gaze hardened when he found Nate in the shadow of the doorway. "Perhaps you should stay in Rhys's stead, then."

"Enough."

Rhys's voice hardened, brittle as it was, and he shook his head. The determined light in his eye was little more than the smoldering embers of hope until it was replaced entirely by a haze of pleading. "Once I make sure my father and mother are safe, I _will _come back. I will. I swear."

Gilmore wasn't convinced. No one standing behind the barricade was, not even the young man who spoke of promises. Instead, his brows knitted together, and he took a step back, closer to his mother.

"Good luck," Rhys said, a wish for every guard there though he didn't look away from Gilmore. _Good luck _sounded too much like _goodbye_, and another wave of unease set down around him. "Whatever you can do... whatever you have done, it has helped."

"It has been both a privilege and an honor to serve you." Gilmore smiled. Content and genuine.

The reality of what was happening seemed to crash down on Rhys. Seeing men he knew dying for his family sent him on a frenzy; neither Nathaniel nor Eleanor were able to get more than a few shots off before a sword pierced some vital organ or another. Blossom was right beside him, feeding off her master's fury, often times barreling ahead to cripple the legs of the bastards sorry enough to be in her way, leaving them vulnerable for the ancestral Cousland blade to slip into the gaps of their armor.

Getting to the larder was remarkably easy. Rhys was so focused on finding his father, he didn't bother to look around the kitchen. Nathaniel thought it best not to mention the body of his nanny.

"I... knew you'd come." The voice, haggard though it was, still held warmth to it. Bryce sat up against some sacks of grain, clutching his gut. He moved his arm further over the wound when Eleanor ran to his side. "Hello, darling. You're...?"

"I'm fine," she cut in. "Rhys is fine. He saved me, and now we've saved you." Eleanor wasn't looking at the blood. As far as she was concerned, to look away from his husband's eyes was to kill them both. "The exit's right here, Bryce. We've made it."

Bryce's jaw clenched. He turned his head toward Rhys and Nathaniel, though his blue eyes lingered on his wife for a few moments before focusing on the two men. "Saved your mother, did you?" He chuckled, wincing in pain as a result. "Always intent on showing up your father, aren't you, pup?"

"I wouldn't, if you did not make such a feat so simple." Rhys idled near the door. Even Nathaniel stood farther into the room than he did, though not by much. His only movement was an awkward shift on his feet, and while his face was skewed with worry, Nathaniel knew that worry was for his mother, even now, even after seeing Bryce's state and the surely mortal wound he'd fallen prey to only recently.

A long moment passed between them as the castle burned and bled at their backs.

Eleanor smoothed a gloved hand over her husband cheek, a tight smile pulling at her wet cheeks. This was for her own good, but it helped only a little.

Bryce looked crestfallen when his son didn't move to kneel beside her, and that disappointed look on his father's face was enough to guide Rhys forward, pulled as if by another's will and not his own. Not even the weight of his arms and armor could hold him in his place.

Rhys groaned softly once his knees touched the stone floor, his armor only serving to dig into the wounds he'd collected that night. Still, his were scrapes compared to the slice in Bryce's belly, so he bit his lip and glanced towards the back door, his mouth set into a hard line. "We have to go. Nathaniel and I will carry you if need be."

Nathaniel felt his muscles tense as Bryce's eyes found his. They narrowed, much like how his wife's had earlier, but it didn't take long for his face to soften. He didn't smile, but he didn't order his death, either. Nate considered that a win.

"Gladly," Nate agreed, taking a few steps closer but not enough to intrude. "If we put enough pressure-"

"He will slow us down."

The deep voice drew the eyes of everyone in the room. Apparently, the Warden had been off scouting. He his blades were stained with blood.

"I apologize for being blunt, but it's the truth," Duncan continued, sheathing his swords and heading to kneel down by Bryce's body, settling between mother and son. He lifted the teyrn's hand, revealing a cut down to the gut, mild pressure being the only thing keeping his internal organs in. "We have minutes at most before the arl's men find us."

"Then we fight the arl's men," Rhys said without a moment's hesitation, already pulling himself up from his knees. When he pulled himself to his full height, his quickly tindered rage flickered, then grew into a flame. "I am _not _going to leave my father here to be butchered. We get him out, or we go nowhere."

Duncan didn't pay Rhys the slightest mind. Nathaniel found himself drawn to his friend's side, if only as a show of support.

"Duncan," Bryce pleaded, taking the warden's hand in his. "Please, take my son and wife. Get them away from here."

"I won't leave you." Eleanor curled herself by his side, helping him wrap an arm around her own shoulders. "I won't let you die like this, and I won't let you send me off."

The Warden simply nodded. "I came seeking someone suitable for to join the Grey Wardens," he murmured, nodding his head toward Rhys and Nate. "If I help them leave, I expect them to fight the Blight with me."

"Are you blackmailing a dying man?" Nate couldn't help himself. "This night has been full of nothing but horrible men doing horrible things; are you so eager to join their ranks?"

While Nate spoke, Rhys worked his parted lips in shock. All the color had since drained from his cheeks, and there was an underlying threat in the clench of his jaw. If there was anyone stupid enough to stand against a Warden, it was him.

"I don't need your help to _leave_," he finally managed to say, his upper lip curled. Blossom snarled for him, filling the silence until he spoke again. "I know this castle and the surrounding lands better than you could ever dream. I would be saving you. You are not in the place to ask such things of me _or _my father."

Nate tightened his grip on his bow just as Rhys's mabari growled, turning away from the larder door to face down the man who was making her master so angry. Nathaniel had never seen Rhys in this sort of situation before. His loyalty to his friend was continuing to surprise him.

Duncan lost none of his calm. In fact, he still wasn't looking at either of them. "My Lord, your family has supported the Wardens for many an Age. You know why I ask this. This Blight will ravage Ferelden to its core if I do not have enough able-bodied men and women to fight the darkspawn with me."

Bryce's brow furrowed deeply. After a long pause, he peered up to his son. "It is our duty to serve our land when the call comes, Rhys. You may know Highever, but Duncan can take you to Ostagar. And that is where you need to be. Someone has to tell Fergus."

The Cousland boy's pride was stronger even than his sense of duty. Everyone save Duncan was well aware of the fact. Whatever strain worked its way into Bryce's voice was little more than the urge to temper his son for the better, an attempt that failed when Rhys's voice raised high enough to echo into the passage Duncan sought to escape through.

"I will not answer the _call _of a man who does not think me important enough to face me!"

The Warden drew himself to full height. Rhys easily had a few inches on the man, and Nathaniel had to force himself not to settled a hand on his shoulder. He knew he'd shrug it off.

"If you choose to be a child about this, I will force the matter," Duncan explained, voice irritatingly calm. "There is more at stake here than your pride. Even your parents. I am sorry for what you must be going through, but I will not apologize for my methods. You will either come willingly or I will conscript you here and now."

"Are you mad?" Nate's own composure cracked at that, and stepped up beside Rhys, sneering. "The Wardens have barely been back in Ferelden for twenty years and you're threatening a _Cousland_ with-"

"I do not make threats, Master Howe." The Warden's eyes went from Rhys to Nate and back again. "Become a Warden or die. Those are your choices."

Eleanor spoke up from her place by Bryce's side. "Rhys, darling," she pleaded, "You must get to your brother. He needs to know he is teyrn, and you must tell him of—" She had to stop herself from sobbing. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she continued, voice even and cool. "You must _go_."

Rhys's chin trembled, though he never took his eyes off of Duncan. All it took was another distressed noise from Eleanor for him to crack, tearing away from Duncan to move beside his mother again.

His fingers curled around her forearm. He knew she would struggle if he tried to guide her to her feet, so he waited, hoping beyond anything that she might change her mind. "I can save _you_, mother. If you'd let me," he said, all but begging with his words and his eyes and his touch. "I could care less about this Warden; I can find a place for you, somewhere safe, and then I can search for Fergus. You don't have to die here."

"If I leave your father to die, I will have passed with him, no matter where I am." Eleanor's eyes welled with tears as she reached out, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. "If I stay here, I can hold them off. Give you and Nathaniel the chance you deserve. Your father and I... we've lived a full, happy life."

Bryce groaned, clutching his wound even tighter. "Ah— listen to your mother, Rhys. You know there's no convincing her. Besides, there a good chance she'll kill every soldier in the castle protecting me."

"I can't leave her here to die!" Rhys cringed at the sharp sound of his own voice. "I've read about the Wardens. I know what happens to them. It's a death sentence, same as this. I would rather go down fighting for you than for the good of Ferelden."

Eleanor frowned deeply before leaning forward to press a kiss to Rhys's forehead. "Stubborn boy," she murmured, aware of the way Rhys only moved closer to her when he felt her tears on his skin. "You must tell Fergus and the king. It will be easy for you to gather men enough to come back and retake your home." She paused. She sighed. "It will be a good story."

Rhys nodded, finally relenting, before pulling away from her. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his words tight and painful-sounding. "I won't rest until I have fixed this."

Nathaniel reached back to his quiver, removing all but a few of his arrows, holding them out to the teyrna. "My father will answer for this," he said, voice quiet but sure.

"Look after my boys," she murmured, moving to her knees to dock an arrow in her bow. "You owe them that much.

Before Nate could respond, the sounds of crashing could be heard just outside the kitchen. Or perhaps _in_ the kitchen.

"We must leave." Duncan used an arm to attempt and herd the two men toward the tunnel. "Now!"

Rhys barely repressed the urge to shove the Warden away.

Time was melting away, moving faster than before, causing a blur of the larder and his parents and all the blood his father had spilled. Eleanor glanced in Rhys's direction for just long enough to catch his rushed, "I love you," and reply with one of her own, before falling into position.

His father said nothing. Perhaps he was already dead. Or he wanted the last word to be hers.

There was another crash and a garbled shout that echoed down the cramped alleyway Duncan and Nathaniel ushered him through. Then everything was blotted out, silenced by his blood pounding hot and loud in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Retelling the events of days past to the king was difficult at best for Rhys. Difficult bled into a strained voice and murmured apologies and hot cheeks, shamed by his own inability to speak of what happened without turning into a child. More than once, tears threatened to overwhelm him, but those were blinked back and swallowed up. Those tears clung to his throat, and when Cailan's hand rested on his shoulder, he didn't shrink away. Pride forced steel into his spine, but he did not move away or avert his glassy eyes.

"The Warden – _Duncan_... conscripted me." Rhys tapped his index finger on the table in front of them, shoulders hunched above maps that showed locations where scouting parties spotted pockets of darkspawn. They were everywhere, so many black marks on old parchment; the thought turned something in his stomach. He forced out a thin laugh and looked to Cailan. "So I'm to die anyway."

Cailan's smile was patient and warm. "I wouldn't say so, no."

When Rhys glanced back to the papers littering the table, the king reached forward and pressed a hand down to cover a good half of the nearby Wilds as a bid for his attention. "We have a better chance than many think to wipe out the darkspawn before the true Blight even begins. I've ridden out with some of my men, seen the things that threaten us. Some are them are the size of children, some of malnourished dwarves. Others take the shape of men, but my forces are trained and disciplined soldiers, fighting against a mindless horde that only answers the call of an archdemon that has yet to show itself."

Bending forward, he caught Rhys's eyes again, and his smile cut a confident curve into his face. "You will not die here, friend. You'll live to see Highever again, but only after Howe hangs for what he's done."

"A hanging?" There was something vicious in the Cousland boy's eyes, something lean and almost feral. Hate for the man he'd long thought of as a family friend was quickly nursed along the road, taking root silently with Duncan and Nathaniel at his back and Blossom at his heels. "I was thinking something more along the lines of a beheading."

Cailan's brows rose. And to his credit, his smile wilted only slightly. "We will cross this bridge when we find ourselves at it," he said, lifting his hand from the map to pat Rhys on his forearm. "For now, know that you will find your brother, and you will both have the land stolen from you returned. I fear there is nothing I can do for your parents other than promise you they will be remembered fondly." He paused at that, his jaw twitching as if he worked his next words around in his mouth, pressing them into a proper order. "Bryce was always very kind to me, always willing to dispense moderate advice when I only thought to act on a grand scale."

"That's my father," Rhys replied, forcing the words from his tight throat. "Always tempering those around him like a blacksmith when faced with a firebrand."

"Is that what we are, then?"

Cailan's face lit up again. There was comfort to be found here in this tent, away from the reality of a war camp and the Warden, away from Nathaniel and the constant reminder of his shared blood. Here, there was only Cailan. Five and a half years separated them in age, but he never minded, willing to spar with the king's son when no one else their age would take up a sword against him. Rhys's eagerness to prove himself mirrored Cailan's to a lesser extent and for vastly different reasons, but they found in it a certain unspoken kinship.

"Firebrands?" Rhys chuckled, shaking his head. "As if you have to ask."

He looked to the maps again, to the black marks threatening to overwhelm the forests around them. His studies taught him of darkspawn and of the unholy corruption they brought with them, of the Wardens who strove to end the Blight, of the valiant many who died protecting Thedas from the infestation. There were drypoint prints of darkspawn creatures, but they were nothing but ink and an artist's flair. This horde was a present danger, and they would be the ones fighting and dying because of it.

His thumb brushed over a curled edge of the thick parchment, a thoughtful expression overtaking his face. Cailan stood idle beside him, much tenser than before. As if he didn't want the focus to shift, as if he would rather be alone than speak of what was laid out before them.

"Are you so sure we will win this?" Looking to Cailan, a worried line deepened between Rhys's brows. "I don't mean to doubt you, but these numbers..."

Cailan brushed Rhys's hand away from the map before pointing a finger towards the stretch of black nearest them. "These are mostly genlocks, Duncan assures me. Squat little beasts. No matter their number, our Wardens can make easy work of them. There are scouts of a larger size scattered through their ranks, but these—" Cailan's index and middle finger smoothed over a cluster of black marks, "—these are not the darkspawn van. We will see those numbers tonight. I have heard they are marching towards us as we speak."

"Duncan spoke of the Joining," Rhys murmured. "Will we have time to gather what's necessary and return to the camp before the darkspawn are upon us?"

"I am not sure." Cailan moved away from the table, pacing a few steps away before turning back with a finger pressed to his lips. "You have the entire day before you. There are Wardens and soldiers enough to cut through the ranks. If you do not make it in time, we'll only be short five men at most."

"So you do believe we have a chance?"

Cailan nodded.

"At defeating the Blight, I mean. Four Blights, and it's taken more than a decade to defeat the archdemon every time. And with these numbers, that's what this must be."

"They will be defeated," Cailan said, his words clipped in a way Rhys was unused to hearing. They smoothed when next he spoke, careful to quash frustration before it flickered too brightly. "Our numbers are superior, and they will only grow once the other Wardens arrive. This Blight _will_ be snuffed out as quickly as the darkspawn climbed out of their blasted hole in the ground."

This time, Rhys was the one who stepped away from the table, his hands falling away from the very things that aroused his suspicion. If Cailan believed they would claim Ostagar as a victory – the first and most decisive against the darkspawn horde in the history of Thedas – he could hardly question him, not when he'd only just arrived with no experience against this foe.

"I should meet with the others before heading into the Wilds," he said, shoulders squared along with his jaw. "If my brother and his party returns before I do..." Rhys paused, suddenly unsure of what to say. The dying wish of both his parents rung true between his ears, but telling a man that every love he held close to his chest was dead before a battle could only end poorly. "Don't tell him anything. I'll wait until the right time to give him the news."

Cailan peered into Rhys's face. He wore a smile again, a sad, resigned thing that only made Rhys ache deep into his bones. "Is there a right time to tell a man such a thing?"

"You're right, of course, but there is a wrong time."

The king nodded in understanding, and Rhys turned to leave, ducking out of his tent without so much as another word only to be reminded of where he stood. As a boy, he and the other children in the castle at Highever would stage Blights in the cobbled hallways and the crowded bailey. But the walls around them were always strong, the fortresses always secure. If not for the noise, the ruins of Ostagar weren't secure enough to keep passing wildlife away, much less darkspawn.

There was a shadow of strength all around, a reminder of the Imperium's former glory, but little stood now save for weathered arches and husks of grand towers. The walls around them were fit to crumble, though Cailan's men fortified what they could with wood and stone. If they were given more time, what could they build? Could they have restored Ostagar to its former state, a mix of Tevinter arrogance and Fereldan ingenuity?

Far off, Rhys could barely make out Nathaniel and Duncan. With them stood three others – two recruits Duncan spoke of only once while on the road, and one other Warden, armed in silver and blue.

The sight of the elder Warden sent his blood boiling. He deserved a choice. Being impressed into the Wardens was hardly fit for someone of his status. The idea of becoming a Warden disgusted him; the idea of being forced to join the Wardens after the decimation of his family and estate drove Rhys half-mad. He did not think less of those who chose to take up arms for the Warden, but being torn from defending his mother and forced into this...

He hated it. He hated Duncan, and he hated Nathaniel's father for a betrayal that forced the Warden's hand.

Taking a deep breathe, Rhys released it as slowly as he could.

_Take what you have. Do what you can with the lot you've been dealt. Make your mother proud. Don't disgrace the memory of your father. Tell your brother the truth._

_Cross the bridge when you come to it and not before._

Nothing could wipe the grimace from his face when he finally came upon the group, no reminders of duty or pride or even the memory of his mother's smile. There was a grimace on his mouth, and the grimace would remain.

"Sooo... now that we're all here," the younger Warden began only moments after Rhys joined the others beside the fire. "To the Wilds, yeah?"

"Remind me why we need'ta go out _there_ t'get 'spawn blood?" The man who spoke was tanned, face worn with laugh lines and thick with black stubble. "Not t'state the obvious or nothin', but ain't they coming _to us_?"

The older, balding recruit spoke up. Jory was his name, if Rhys recalled correctly, it was the perpetually smirking rogue that he could not recall the name of.

"You want to gather blood while we're fighting a _horde_?" Jory shook his head. "You're mad, Daveth."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. If possible, he seemed just as reluctant to do this as Rhys did, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

"You will go _now_." Duncan's voice was surprisingly curt. It made everyone snap to attention besides Rhys, who simply reflected Nathaniel's eyeroll. "We must Join you _before_ the attack. You must gather the vials of blood under the eyes of a... well, normally it would be a Senior Warden, but as the rest of the men are busy scouting, I have chosen the opposite."

"Oh, stopped just shy of calling me a novice, Duncan." The blonde man grinned, nodding to Rhys. "I'm Alistair, by the way. I tried getting a little information out of your friend, but I don't think he likes me much."

Nate scoffed. "It's not my place to speak for him."

"Ri-ight." Alistair held out his hand toward Rhys, still keeping a smile on his lips. "Pleasure to meet you, at any rate. Duncan couldn't stop talking about how he wanted to recruit the youngest Cousland; I'm surprised he managed!"

Daveth's head snapped, having been focused on picking the peeling leather of his gloves before. "Aw, we got a bloody _nobleman_ in the group? Sod it all."

"I won't be a nobleman for very long," Rhys muttered before taking Alistair's hand and giving it a firm shake. Even speaking to him, he didn't look the other man in the eye, instead choosing to level a piercing stare at the Warden in front of him. "As I recall, becoming a Warden makes sure of that."

He hated how childish he sounded, as if Duncan had snatched him away from his favorite toy instead of his entire world. But he refused to beat back whatever petulance stole into his voice. He had no reason to make himself more palatable to these people, not when they were just as eager to call him brother.

Duncan was, once again, completely unbothered.

"That is something we will speak of when the time comes." The Warden paused briefly, as if considering whether or not to say something. "For now, you all have your first assignment: to gather three vials of darkspawn blood. Each." Turning his gaze to Alistair, he inclined his head. "Ensure they're suitably equipped, grab the map from my pack, and you _must_ find those treaties."

"Treaties?" Nate posed the question everyone was thinking.

"Slips of parchment I truly wish were not necessary," Duncan explained. "There was a time when the lands would rally under the Grey Warden's banner, but Ferelden has more cause than most to forget this."

Rhys huffed, shifting on his feet beside Alistair. "And you've misplaced such important documents." He did not stop there, though his voice lowered to a thick murmur about incompetence.

Cailan's belief in the Wardens was unwavering, and Rhys shared many memories of awe-inspiring tales of Warden prowess in battle and even in diplomacy. Perhaps the history books told the story true, but he had no reason to believe in the man in front of him, no reason to bite his tongue and follow through without dissent.

"I apologize for not being in Ferelden during the Warden's banishment."

Alistair was the only one who sniggered, earning him a glare from the young Cousland.

Sighing, Duncan continued. "They are hidden, well-protected by seals made long ago to react to tainted blood. There was once a Warden outpost here in the Wilds, hence why they have remained here. You will be out in the wilds, and therefore it is far more efficient for you to do this, as well as it acting as a further test of your abilities to _follow simple instructions_."

Alistair was quick to intervene, stepping between the older Warden and Rhys. "Hah, alright then. Remember the darkspawn? Nasty skin, sharp teeth? Can we go fight them instead of yelling at each other?"

"Ten silver on the poncy noble," Daveth said with a laugh, his grin revealing a gold tooth. "We could use some fun, aye? Let 'em go at it."

The slight rolled off of Rhys's back, rigid as it was, and he pulled away from the group, giving a sharp whistle to Blossom, who was standing at attention near the kennels. She'd been distracted by the ash warriors and their own hounds until she heard the piercing sound and saw Rhys walking towards her. She was clean now, all dark gray with a silver muzzle and twin strips of pale kaddis down her back, proud enough to separate herself from the hounds in the kennels and sporting none of the scars worn like badges of honor by the warriors' bests.

Rhys scratched absently between her ears when she finally fell into stride beside him. The others were already farther ahead, talking amongst themselves save for Nathaniel. Nate walking a few feet behind them, eager only to keep to himself. It was a desire Rhys was intensely familiar with.

The Warden chatted amiably with Daveth and Jory. Any attempts he made with the two other men were shut down by glares or just ignoring him. Once they began to make their way into the thick of the forest, however, Nate broke the silence.

"I think your brother's party might have come this way," he said quietly. "We aren't going too far off a recently beaten path."

Rhys nodded to himself. Despite wanting desperately to find his brother, he had nothing planned to say to him. Perhaps, "Hello, Fergus. Father got his way, and I've come to join the fight," would be enough. Perhaps it wouldn't. But the idea of facing his brother now and doing anything but falling to pieces seemed an impossibility.

Blossom scuffed her massive paws on the ground before lowering her head to sniff. Once she caught a scent, she moved forward, scouring the path in front of them after nudging Jory aside.

What she and the men behind her discovered was nothing short of a massacre.

The blood on the ground was black and cold no matter whose wound it escaped from, though the smell was enough to differentiate between human and darkspawn. Human blood smelled like nothing compared to the tar-like blackness pumped through darkspawn veins. The stench alone was enough to make Rhys's stomach churn, and the color drained completely from Jory's full cheeks.

Bodies – some human, some not – lay strewn over the ground, some broken and others simply bled. But there was one man, twitching and shifting on the ground and moaning in pain, that yet lived. He was wearing armor familiar enough to send Rhys shoving past Nathaniel and Alistair and Daveth; he was one of Fergus's men.

Rhys did not know the man by name, though his face was familiar even distorted as it was. Kneeling beside him in the trodden grass, he gave a cursory look to his injuries, spotting only a leg twisted into an impossible angle and a slice near his stomach, mere inches away from his gut. The wound would fester if he remained surrounded by this for any longer. Maybe it already had. Rhys couldn't tell beneath the layers of armor.

"Oh! Oh-_h_, thank the – thank the Maker you're here, m'lord."

So he wasn't concussed, not nearly damaged enough not to remember his face.

"The darkspawn, they overwhelmed us. Dragged half of them away. The soldiers what didn't die in the fight, at least." When the soldier took a deep breath to continue, he winced and clutched onto Rhys's arm. "Your brother – they took 'im, too. I tried looking for him, but he's not anywhere 'round here."

Nathaniel's brow creased, staring up at Alistair as the young Warden was scrounging in his pack. "The _darkspawn_ take prisoners?" he asked, taking a roll of bandages from the man. "What could they possibly want with the bodies?"

Jory stood a good distance off, his already pallid face looking worse by the second, but Daveth was kneeling down in the blood and dirt to help get the soldier's armor off. "Food, prob'ly."

"I don't know," Alistair admitted, voice thin. The color was drained from his face, as well. "I... I'll have to talk to Duncan. I don't know."

"Well, you're _incredibly_ useful then, aren't you?" Nate grabbed his canteen, pouring it over the gaping wound in the soldier's thigh. While the man was screaming, he passed Rhys a square of wool that Alistair had handed off in the interim. "Press this down on his wound. Firmly. Don't let up until I say. And keep asking him questions; the last thing we need is him to pass out and have to lug his body around the Wilds with us."

Rhys took the scrap from Nathaniel and pressed it just as he was told: firmly. "How many were you? If there were more than the dead here, your numbers must have been more than I assumed."

"There was ten of us," the soldier groaned. "A dozen, maybe."

"Jory," Rhys said, raising his voice to get the man's attention. "Do something useful and count the bodies, will you?" Once the recruit moved off to do as was asked of him, Rhys turned his attention back to the man. "Are you absolutely sure the darkspawn took my brother? Is there no chance you may be mistaken? Did you see it with your own eyes?"

The soldier looked close to fainting. Rhys dug his fingers harder against the wound on his thigh, his own teeth gritted in waiting. That woke the man up with another strained scream.

"I didn't! He's not – he's not here; I looked for him! Crawled all over, I did." The man grimaced, though whatever surly expression he might've worn in the face of such questions cracked into a whimper. "I tried... I tried as hard as I could to watch him."

Rhys's brows flattened above his eyes. "Why are we wasting our supplies on him? His leg's broken. A lot of good he'll do us when the darkspawn will get to Ostgar tonight."

"Maker's sake! How can you be so heartless?" Alistair sounded about as horrified as Daveth looked. "He's one of your own men!"

"Fuckin' nobility, all the same." Daveth huffed, moving to the soldier's head to elevate it. "Fuck 'em if they ain't as rich as you, huh? What're you gonna do went you ain't _shit_ anymore, boy?"

"_**Quiet.**_"

Nate's voice was nothing less than a threat, one that shut the rogue up immediately.

"_I_ am doing what I can for this man because _I_ would see no more..." He hesitated, clenched his jaw, staring into Rhys' eyes before averting them. "He doesn't need to be another casualty."

Rhys's jaw twitched once and again before Nathaniel told him he could release the swatch of wool. Part of him rose above what Daveth said, but another lingered with narrowed eyes at the rogue, wanting nothing more than to say something. Eventually, that side won.

"This has nothing to do with how much coin is in the man's purse," he spat, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in a sneer. "It has everything to do with being able to fight." He looked towards Alistair, chin tilted up and his eyes bright with defiance. "And he is not my man. He fought alongside my brother, and I'm a Warden recruit." Once he was satisfied, he tossed the blood-stained fabric into Alistair's pack. "Neither of you know the first thing about me, so I'd suggest you keep quiet rather than prove yourselves to be idiots."

"There's ten." Jory interrupted, thick brows pinched over the bridge of his nose. "I think- I think there are drag marks? I'm... I'm not sure; I'm no tracker."

Nate sighed heavily, digging in his belt for a small jar of healing poultice; he dabbed the minimal amount of the cool salve on the wound and began wrapping it. "Of course you aren't."

Once the wound was wrapped, they helped the man to his feet.

"Can you make it back to the camp?" Nate asked. "We do not have the time to escort you back."

Alistair started to interrupt, but the soldier was already moving, albeit shakily. "I-I'll be fine, sers, th-thank you for th'chance."

"We should walk him back." The young Warden continued staring at the soldier even though his party had begun moving forward. "Can't we walk him back? It's no trouble."

Nate huffed, taking an arrow from his quiver and docking it in his bow. "_This_ is who's supposed to lead us into battle against darkspawn?" He looked at Rhys briefly before continuing until he was peering over his own shoulder at Alistair. "Mending his leg was one thing. We gave him a second chance at survival; the rest is up to him."

"Do they have many bleeding hearts in the Wardens?" Rhys asked, his tone lighter than before and draped heavily in mockery. "It _is_ a shame you weren't in Duncan's place. My mother might have been moved to save herself from being skewered on a sword."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Alistair's face was scrunched in confusion. "I hardly think wanting to help a dying man make it the short distance to camp constitutes me as a bleeding heart. It's my weakness for wounded animals and adorable children that does that, thank you."

"Maker's breath," Nate muttered. "I hope you don't find yourself funny."

"If you don't laugh at yourself, you'll lead a _very_ boring life, my friend."

The Howe just pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

Rhys shook his head, just short of caring enough to roll his eyes. "And just think, once the Joining's over and done with, we'll be _brothers_." His voice plateaued into monotone. "Oh, how long I have awaited the day to be Joined with those I share so much in common with."

Blossom stepped up closer to his side, her walk just as proud as his. It wasn't difficult to mark her as the product of Rhys's nurturing, her head held high and alert with no small amount of apathy directed towards the men at her back.

Rhys gripped at the hilt of his sword and turned around, continuing backwards on careful feet. "So where are these treaties? I'd rather suck the rot out of that poor soldier's wound than spend another minute in these Wilds."

Alistair removed the map from his pack, unrolling it in his hands. "Ah, right. There's a ruined outpost... here." He handed the map to Rhys, pointing at the griffon symbol. "We have to keep going through this clearing, past a lake, and we should start seeing your standard Tevinter ruins. You know, ivy, some white stone, the sense of dread, and the happy knowledge that it was all built on the backs of starving slaves!"

Daveth unsheathed his short sword, licking at his lips nervously. "Let's just get this done. 'Fore somethin' worse than darkspawn gets us."

"Worse than the darkspawn" seemed impossible. Even with the blood that soaked into Rhys's past few days, saturating him with gory images as well as grief, nothing he'd seen compared to what stretched out in front of him when they came upon the first group of them.

They were monstrously ugly, some squat and some taller than any human man, with skin that looked like melted wax, bulging awkwardly and sagging despite their lean musculature. Their armor was little more than scrap, bits and pieces cobbled together from the men they felled. More than once, Rhys and Nathaniel caught a glimpse of a familiar sigil, scarred by time and misuse.

Somehow, even with their twisted, ugly faces mere inches away at times, the smell was the worst, and living, breathing darkspawn smelled even more foul than the corpses. Each drop of black blood spilled by the recruits filled their noses with a stench strong enough to make them gag.

And they fought fiercely, gnashing sharp and broken teeth with every blow and only growing stronger with every moment the men did not fall. Their frustration led to careless error, incompetence causing more of their deaths than superior skill from the men who opposed them. The five of them fought valiantly even still. Rhys favored his sword more heavily than usual, stabbing and disabling rather than cleaving like Jory. Nathaniel took down twice as many as Daveth, whose skill relied heavily on distraction. Alistair, despite being the only Warden of the lot, took down two, both hurlocks, though one had use of magic.

They spoke little and argued even less once they came to blows. Rhys had less than nothing to say and was content with wiping bits of darkspawn flesh and bone off of his shield. Despite following Alistair's command, he took the helm, the winding paths of the map and the location of the outpost taken to memory.

Nathaniel followed close behind, always with an arrow ready to loose should they be flanked. The other three stayed close together; Jory was frightened beyond belief, but the others remained back out of an unwillingness to follow the young Cousland step for step.

All-in-all, though, the darkspawn they encountered went down with relative ease. They were stronger and smarter in numbers, Alistair had explained, especially with leadership.

Luckily, the young Warden had no need to explain what that meant.

It took them three hours and far more than the twelve vials of blood they needed to finally reach the ruins, and it was there they encountered the alpha.

The hurlock towered over his kin, thick with muscle, clutching a jagged battleaxe. There were others around him, but they did not attack. They gnashed their teeth, clawed at the ground, roared in a frenzy... but unlike the stragglers in the forest, they were unwilling to move. Not without a command.

Nathaniel struck first, an arrow flying into the eye of a hurlock and another already in the air by the time Rhys and Alistair began pushing forward, Jory at their heels. Blossom and Daveth moved to the side to flank them.

The alpha bellowed; the birds would have flown from the trees in terror had the Korcari Wilds not seemed void of life entirely. The darkspawn seemed to belong there. They were decay; they were violence; they were the cruelty of nature.

Thick, black blood seeped into the ground, as if the wilds were hungry for the tainted blood. Each darkspawn that fell only seemed to enrage the creatures more, until finally they were left with only the alpha, filled with arrows and littered with precise cuts from Rhys' sword and Alistair's shield, but the thing would not _die_.

It swung its battleaxe with the strength of bear, slicing gashes in shields and armor alike. Red joined the black on their armor easily enough, though the darkspawn blood seemed to envelope it entirely. Alistair fractured his shield arm by taking a blow meant for Rhys, shoulder-checking him out of the way when he noticed he had not yet recovered from a kick just a moment ago.

The young Warden's scream fanned the flames of the alpha. The creature dropped his ax and began _clawing_ at them, wrenching off pieces of armor, digging into flesh as they stabbed and cut and shot.

When the darkspawn monster finally fell to its knees, and then to the ground, no one had the strength to finish the thing.

Nathaniel limped forward, out of arrows and with a sprained ankle from attempting to keep his distance

Finally, Rhys moved, standing over the alpha's body, chest heaving in labored breaths. The darkspawn was still hissing. Gurgling on its own tainted blood, it still wanted nothing more than to kill him.

The Cousland gripped the hilt with both hands and drove his sword into its skull.

"There..." Alistair winced, swallowing thickly. "There should be a marker. Or a chest. We- we might need to do some digging." He gave Rhys a small smile as he held his shield arm to his chest; Jory was assisting in hooking the unwieldy shield to his back. "See? Having a bleeding heart on your team isn't so bad, is it?"

"I could have taken the blow," Rhys replied without missing a beat, the arrogant lilt still in his voice despite the smirk that finally replaced the grimace.

It was gone soon enough, though, when the chest was spotted across the floor of the outpost. The thing was broken into pieces, sitting in the open air as if an open invitation to disappointment. Rhys spat out a curse and moved forward quickly despite the aching muscles in his legs. His heart still pounded in his ears, and he shouted in frustration when he realized there was nothing there save dusty, broken remains.

"So is this it, then?" he asked, turning around to face them. "We've come all this way for nothing. There are no treaties here."

Nate knelt down beside him, brow, furrowed. "They were taken." He pointed out a faint outline in the wood, discoloration. "Or whatever was in this chest was. I cannot say how long ago, but-"

There was a throaty chuckle, and all five men went for their weapons.

"Are you lost?" the hooded woman purred, nails skipping over worn stone as she made her way down into the ruins. "I would hope so, for if you're scavengers you're an Age too late for anything of value.

The woman removed her hood, revealing jet black hair, messily tied in a bun. Her skin was pale, lips painted a dark purple, and even from a distance, her golden eyes were noticeable. What clothing she wore was clearly patched several times over, a skirt and leggings of black leather, though they looked to be of different quality and from various sorts of hides as she slunk closer, seeming more predator than woman.

Rhys was the first to speak, straightening himself out into his full height and peering at the woman curiously. His grip on his sword was loose compared to the others.

"We are Wardens," he said, taking a step forward as she took her last. "Looking for the treaties that were kept in that chest, locked to anyone who is not one of us. You wouldn't have any idea as to where they might be, would you?"

"Would I?" she asked. Rhys stepped closer. "Do I appear to know the location of these scraps?"

Rhys arched a brow; the woman laughed, setting four of the five ill-at-ease. There was something odd about her, unsteady, like a strong wind could push her in another direction and a word could send her away. "And would you follow me if I claimed I did?"

One sword lowered, one guard dropped, and Rhys nodded, murmuring a, "yes," that only made the woman laugh again.


End file.
